Still... you turn me on - (Emerson Lake & Palmer)

Do you want to be an angel,
Do you want to be a star,
Do you want to play some magic on my guitar?
Do you want to be a poet,
Do you want to be my string?
You could be anything.
Do you want to be the lover of another
Undercover? You could even be
the man on the moon.

Do you want to be the player,
Do you want to be the string?
Let me just tell you something,
It just don't mean a thing.
You see it really doesn't matter
when you're buried in disguise
by the dark glass on your eyes,
though your flesh has crystalised;
Still... you turn me on.

Do you want to be the pillow
where I lay my head,
Do you want to be the
feathers lying in my bed?
Do you want to be a colour cover magazine;
create a scene.
Every day a little sadder,
A little madder,
Someone get me a ladder.

Do you want to be the singer,
Do you want to be the song?
Let me tell you something
you just couldn't be more wrong.
You see I really have to tell you
that it all gets so intense.
From my experience
It just doesn't seem to make sense,
Still... you turn me on.

Dreams - Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)

Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!

My spirit not awakening, till the beam
Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.
Yes! tho' that long dream were of hopeless sorrow
,'Twere better than the cold reality
Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,
And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,
A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.

But should it be- that dream eternally
Continuing- as dreams have been to me
In my young boyhood- should it thus be given,
Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven.
For I have revell'd, when the sun was bright
I' the summer sky, in dreams of living light
And loveliness,- have left my very heart
In climes of my imagining, apart
From mine own home, with beings that have been
Of mine own thought- what more could I have seen?

'Twas once- and only once- and the wild hour
From my remembrance shall not pass- some power
Or spell had bound me- 'twas the chilly wind
Came o'er me in the night, and left behind
Its image on my spirit- or the moon
Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon
Too coldly- or the stars- howe'er it was
That dream was as that night-wind- let it pass.

I have been happy, tho' in a dream.
I have been happy- and I love the theme:
Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life,
As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
Of semblance with reality, which brings
To the delirious eye, more lovely things
Of Paradise and Love- and all our own!
Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.


Sueños

¡Ojalá mi joven vida fuera un sueño duradero!
Y mi espíritu durmiera hasta que el rayo certero
De una eternidad anunciara el nuevo día.
¡Sí! Aunque el largo sueño fuera de agonía
Siempre sería mejor que estar despierto
Para quien tuvo, desde el nacimiento
En la dulce tierra, el corazón
Prisionero del caos de la pasión.

Mas si ese sueño persistiera eternamente
Como los sueños infantiles en mi mente
Solían persistir, si éso ocurriera,
Sería ridículo esperar una quimera.
Porque he soñado que el sol resplandecía
En el cielo estival, lleno de luz bravía
Y de belleza, y mi corazón he paseado
Por climas remotos e inventados,
Junto a seres imaginarios, sólo previstos
Por mí, ¿qué más podría haber visto?.

Pero una vez, una única vez, y ya no olvidaré
Aquel bárbaro momento, un poder o no sé qué
Hechizo me ciñó, o fue que el viento helado
Sopló de noche y al marchar dejó grabado
En mi espíritu su rastro, o fue la Luna
Que brilló en mis sueños con especial fortuna
Y frialdad, o las estrellas en cualquier caso
El sueño fue como ese viento: dejémosle pasar.

Yo he sido feliz, pues, aunque el medio
Fuera un sueño. Fui feliz, y los adoro:
¡Sueños!. Tanto por su intenso colorido
Que los oponen a lo real, y porque al ojo delirante
Ofrecen cosas más bellas y abundantes
Del paraíso y del amor, ¡y todas nuestras!
Que la esperanza joven en sus mejores muestras.